Drawing on fishing experience from his old life on Earth, plus a solid grasp of modern angling theory…

Tachibana Kyūjō finally reeled in his fishing line after three long hours.

Not because he wanted to give up. But because, well… even the last moldy scrap of bread he’d been using as bait had been eaten or washed away.

The fish around here weren’t just ignoring him—they were visibly disgusted by his bait.

Watching them swim by with that arrogant flick of the fin, not even giving his line a glance, made Kyūjō want to dive in and grab them with his bare hands.

But one glance at his small, undernourished body reminded him he’d probably drown before even touching a scale.

What’s that?

You’re saying he failed? That he went home empty-handed?

No way. Kyūjō would never let himself be called a fisherman who returned with nothing.

If he couldn’t catch fish… well, there was always citrus.

With movements like a midnight thief, Kyūjō slung his fishing pole over one shoulder and crept toward the nearest tangerine grove.

Fortunately, his senses were now sharp—nearly on par with mid-level Kenbunshoku Haki—so slipping past the guards was a breeze.

Day one in this world, and it looked like citrus would be his main source of calories once again.

But to be fair, these oranges were amazing. They reminded him of Mikan from his hometown—except they were almost twice the size. Kyūjō ended up devouring over a hundred in one sitting before he finally felt full.

He stuffed a few dozen more into a makeshift sack and headed home, where he cleared out piles of junk and trash that had built up over who-knows-how-long.

He managed to patch together a decent set of clothes. Nothing fancy—but wearable.

After that, he made his way back to the beach.

He hadn’t had a proper bath in years—and at this point, his body had basically evolved a layer of grime.

That evening, under the fading sky, he bathed.

Not just to clean off the dirt—but to wash away the helplessness that had clung to him since the day he woke up in this world.

— — —

The next morning, Kyūjō woke up bleary-eyed. After relieving himself—and noting how strong his body smelled like tangerines—he decided to try a new approach today.

If the sea wouldn’t feed him, maybe the forest could?

Two hours later…

He’d only managed to find a handful of bird eggs, and his stomach still grumbled in protest.

If he kept this up, the birds would go extinct before the week was over.

This world had no mercy for the weak.

— — —

Time passed.

Two months had flown by since Kyūjō started using earthworms as bait. Since then, his fishing skills had skyrocketed—back to veteran level, or maybe even better.

Part of it was instinct. A different kind of instinct.

Something refined. Sharpened. Like a blade.

He hadn’t learned Kenbunshoku Haki yet, not in the formal sense, but… he was getting close to something similar. A premonition-like awareness that he quietly nurtured on his own.

From palm-sized minnows to massive open-water fish, his haul grew with his strength and stamina.

In just two months, Kyūjō had pulled himself out of chronic malnutrition through a steady diet of fish, forest fruits, and his own customized Thunder Breathing ver. 1.0.

He didn’t stop there.

He started saving money.

After selling his catches and odd jobs around the coastal town, he’d managed to save up around 2,000 Berry.

(Note: 16 Berry = 1 yen in local exchange rate.)

And the moment he had enough to spare, he didn’t hesitate.

He dropped 1,600 Berry on a secondhand flintlock pistol and a low-quality dagger that probably wouldn’t last more than a week in combat.

“Money’s a tool, not the goal,” he muttered while checking the rusty edge. “What matters is staying alive.”

With a weapon in his hands for the first time in this world… he finally felt a sliver of security.

— — —

But why the rush?

Why arm himself so suddenly?

Because this world—One Piece’s world—was cruel, chaotic, and full of monsters in human skin.

Kyūjō had spent two months trying to stay under the radar.

But trouble?

It found him anyway.

Just yesterday, while selling his catch in the West Harbor Market of Loguetown, Kyūjō realized something chilling—

Two different slave-trading gangs had started watching him.

Two. At the same time.

Fortunately, his hearing was sharp—unnaturally sharp. He’d caught pieces of their conversation just by walking past.

The first group wanted to capture him and ship him to Sabaody Archipelago—where the Tenryuubito picked out their slaves like livestock.

The second group was even worse.

They planned to “train” him into a personal pet… then sell him to one of those depraved nobles who had a thing for young boys.

This world… was soaked in darkness. And the number of slave traders? Beyond counting.

If he had still been the clueless, half-feral boy from two months ago—without his memories, without his will—he probably would have vanished into that system. Sold off like cargo.

Back then, he was dirty, skinny, and always covered in mud. Even the slave traders thought he was too filthy and useless to bother with.

But now…

After months of cleaning himself up, eating right, and rebuilding his body—

His true appearance was beginning to show: a clean-faced, soft-featured boy with naturally gentle eyes.

Exactly the kind of “product” certain nobles paid top Berry for.

— — —

That night, under the shadow of the crescent moon, Kyūjō crept toward the western harbor again.

One hand gripped a short dagger in a reverse grip. A pistol was tucked at his waist.

You’re the ones who marked me first, Kyūjō thought coldly. So don’t blame me for hitting first.

He wouldn’t let rot take root. Not here. Not in his life.

Behind the market, a man named Vigu was on night watch.

He leaned against the wall, puffing on cheap tobacco to keep himself awake.

“What the hell’s our boss thinking?” he muttered. “He act like we’re the Navy or something.”

“Shift rotations? Guard duty? We’re smugglers, not soldiers.”

Vigu wasn’t a fool.

They were scum—and they knew it. That’s why they only targeted kids.

The weak. The lost.

But before another thought could enter his head, a soft voice came from the shadows beside him.

Vigu turned his head—

Too late.

A sharp sting flared across his throat.

He opened his mouth to scream, but a small hand clamped down hard, silencing him.

The dagger—blunt and rusted—bit into his neck over and over in a jagged sawing motion.

Blood sprayed against the wall.

His vision blurred. His strength drained. And as darkness took him, Vigu had one final, pathetic thought:

Why didn’t he buy a better blade…? Why… make me suffer like this…?

Kyūjō didn’t flinch. His expression was blank—emotionless, like an executioner.

Only when the man stopped moving did he loosen his grip.

Kyūjō quickly checked the corpse’s belt.

“This pistol’s better than mine.”

He pocketed it, wiped the blood from his blade, and bit down on the hilt to free both hands.

Then, with a light leap, he vaulted over the outer wall.

His target: the gang’s safehouse.

He moved like mist, silent and unreadable.

Like a ghost armed with steel.

— — —

By the time dawn broke…

The job was done.

Every single member of that first slave-trading gang had been eliminated. Quietly. Efficiently.

Kyūjō returned home with two locked chests filled with Berry and several long blades.

He sat before the open haul, expression unreadable.

“Guess the rumors were true,” he muttered. “Build a bridge, no one remembers your name… burn one down, and you’re swimming in gold.”

Rough count?

Two million Berry.

He hid the money well.

Then stood.

The dagger was gone—replaced now by a real sword.

He wasn’t finished.

The other group—the twisted nobles’ lapdogs—they were still alive.

And Kyūjō had made up his mind.

“They don’t deserve to live.”

His fingers closed tight around the hilt.

His breathing stilled.

And just like that… he vanished once more into the dark.

Tonight’s blood had only just begun to spill.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep